


To Hell With Gnomes

by DragonaireAbsolvare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Autumn, BAMF Ginny Weasley, Crack, Disney References, Fluff, Garden Gnomes, Gardener Harry, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Halloween, Harry hates gnomes, Harry thinks he hates Tom Riddle, Humor, Light Angst, Manipulative Voldemort (Harry Potter), Neighbours, Oblivious Harry Potter, Reclusive gentleman Tom Riddle, Rivalry, Romantic Tension, Snow White And The Seven Dwarves, Very Jealous Harry, but in a nice way, countryside, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25546495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonaireAbsolvare/pseuds/DragonaireAbsolvare
Summary: Harry is a hard-working, honest gardener. He does not appreciate losing to his wealthy neighbour's artificial garden with imported tiles, imported statues, imported plants and imported gardeners whose only redeeming quality seemed to be nice butts.Tom Riddle is an old-fashioned reclusive gentleman, whose idea of friendly competition is to infuriate his young neighbour.Cue, the Halloween Pumpking Contest and the Autumn Garden Event.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 18
Kudos: 119
Collections: Solstice Flashfest





	1. The Seven Dwarves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [limeta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [limeta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/pseuds/limeta) in the [Solstice_Flashfest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Solstice_Flashfest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Muggle au: Harry steals Voldemort's prized garden gnome as a Halloween prank. Theyre both adults. It makes it funnier in my head if theyre in this intense garden gnome rivalry.

"Would you stop peeping through the kitchen window?" Ginny snapped, slamming the spatula onto the mixing bowl, splattering many a dollops of whipped cream over the counter. Harry jumped back from his spot, grabbing a dirty plate to pretend that he hadn't been viciously wringing the dishcloth to nearly tatters. "Honestly, I don't understand what your problem with Mr Riddle is."

Harry grumbled at his wife and began to wipe the plate, his gaze occasionally straying to the large colonial house behind theirs. It was a show of wealth, with lavish, well-maintained gardens, ivy and climbing roses running along the brick walls- it caught the eye of every passer-by, and had been winning the Gardeners' award for the third year in a row. For Harry, who considered gardening his profession (and being a website manager as the salary-providing hobby) this was the ultimate declaration of war. Harry spent hours tending to his plants, a collection that boasted of thirty different flowers, a shelf of thriving bonsai and a shapely hedge that ran around the length of their yard, dividing the plants into artful sections.

And yet, year after year, Riddle House's imported gardens (fake, artificial, cut 'n' paste- oh, Harry could go on) won the Garderer's award.

Apparently, Mr Riddle had flown in fifteenth-century hand-glazed tiles from an old church in Holland to tile his pathways, and a collector's set of porcelain garden gnomes modelled after Disney's dwarves. And just in time for Halloween, too, so as to win the children's vote too?

Harry seethed, glaring at the chubby, pink face of a gnome. If looks could kill, Gnome Happy wouldn’t be looking so happy right now.

Each day, the gnomes in the West Garden seemed to multiply, and Gnomes Happy, Dopey and Bashful smiled cheerily at him over the hedge, as if mocking him for his honest efforts.

***

Friday was the last straw. Harry was done. There would be no more cheeky gnomes peering at him from the Riddle yard. Harry unearthed his old water-pistol from the attic and filled it with blue ink, and with the years of hunting practice he’d had on rabbits at the Weasleys’ farm, Harry hid behind his own hedge, mounted the pistol on a makeshift tripod and took aim.

Not to say that Harry had any experience as a professional sniper, but his aim had been honed true, and Gnome Bashful was the first to get splattered with the contents of Ginny’s inkwell. He squeezed the trigger until Bashful had been drenched to his satisfaction, the snowy beard dripping murky grey liquid. He then turned to his next victim- Gnome Doc.

Doc held a personal meaning for Harry. It reminded him of his manipulative old Headmaster, pompous and self-important and full of empty grandiloquence. The man had pretended to be a well-meaning grandpa, and then tried to shift the blame onto a student whenever something bad happened, like that time when a snake had bitten a girl in the loo.

Harry took great pleasure covering every inch of Gnome Doc in black, having diluted the ink significantly less. He shot with relish, until Doc’s twinkly smile could no longer be seen.

He was busy dotting Gnome Dopey’s bulbous nose in black when Ginny stumbled across him.

“What are you doing?” Ginny asked suspiciously, eyeing Harry’s form stretched out across the hedge. The pistol and tripod were, thankfully, well-hidden in the hedge.

“Er... Nothing. I’m birdwatching.” He said lamely, gesturing to the binoculars on his neck.

Ginny’s lip curled. “I didn’t know there were birds under the hedge.”

Harry flushed. “Well, there are, um... insects- under the hedge, that is. And birds are bound to come to eat them sooner or later.”

“Right.” Ginny said, looking towards the beech tree in the backyard, where a woodpecker was working on the trunk. There were a couple of sparrows, chirping and courting around the pea runners.

“Uh, I mean I’m trying to spot some new-” Ginny didn’t let him finish, stepping over the table roses to look into the hedge. Harry immediately jumped to stop her, which led to a small tussle. “No! You absolutely can’t look there.”

Ginny fixed him with a glare. “Why not?

“You’ll... uh, frighten the insects away?”

Apparently, this pathetic excuse was not enough for his wife, and Harry was shoved aside in favour of fitting Ginny’s head through the hedge. Darting into the hedge, he gave the tripod and gun a forceful kick, shoving it into the Riddle House’s West Garden where Ginny would not be able to see it.

Disaster averted, Harry heaved a sigh, and looked around to spot an insect or two to validate his claim. Finding none, he settled for a weak ‘You scared them away!’ and followed Ginny back to the house. She didn’t let him out of her sight for much of the day, and it was only when Ginny returned to film the latest video of her baking blog (Molly’s Recipes) that Harry could sneak away to continue shooting ink at the pink-faced abominations.

But when he peered through the hedge into the West Garden, the water-pistol was nowhere to be found.

Cursing, Harry shot back into his own yard, clambered all the way to the attic to sit and reflect on the repercussions of someone coming across five grimy gnomes covered in ink and finding a water-pistol with the name H. J. Potter scrawled across the tag.

He spent the entire night walking on eggshells, but nothing happened. However, it was still too early for someone to confront him about Riddle’s collector’s set gnomes. In the morning, Ginny gasped on peering out the kitchen window.

“Oh, dear lord, Harry, come see this! Someone’s thrown ink all over Mr Riddle’s gnomes! It’s _awful!_ What kind of bastard defaces vintage Disney characters?”

Harry struggled to maintain a straight face as he gazed smugly at the black-stained face of Gnome Happy. “Yes, awful. Must’ve been the local delinquents.” He said thickly, glaring at the half-inked face of Gnome Dopey.

The day passed without much event, and Harry was slowly beginning to relax out of his paranoia. Ginny was out shopping, and he was free to plant his daffodils.

“Aren’t you looking pretty today?” He asked, pecking a small kiss on a bulb. He was relaxed, no more gnomes to mock him; no fancy French garden critics prancing about and sneering at his tulips.

Not yet, at least. The Annual Garden Show was in the spring, and his beauties were ready to impress the judges at the much smaller Autumn Garden event. The Pumpkin creepers were heavy with fruit, bright orange and shapely. The honeysuckle was still in bloom, drooping over the runner-beans. There was a bunch of aconite growing under the willow, with bright yellow flowers, and the row of chrysanthemums at the front were all in varying shades of red.

It was not the orderly, geometric gardens the likes of critics like Malfoy (there were rumours that the Malfoy gardens had giant maze hedges with albino peacocks strutting amidst them) preferred, but Harry loved it best when nature looked _natural._

He plucked off a few weeds hiding between the pansies and the dahlias and was turning to prune the roses when Ginny returned. She flew across the garden and launched herself into Harry’s arms.

“Mr Riddle’s invited us to tea! Can you believe it?”

.

.

.

No. He could not believe it.

Would not believe it.

There was absolutely no way on earth that was a polite invitation to a dignified tea-party. Not when the water-pistol with H. J. Potter was somewhere in the Riddle House compound. And besides, Harry had no intention of sipping tea and getting all chummy with that pompous old windbag.

“I’m not coming.” Harry groused. Ginny punched his arm lightly. “I don’t even like him.”

“You can’t not come, Harry. The invitation says, ‘To Mr and Mrs Potter’.” She waved an envelope.

Harry stared. Who wrote with envelopes in this day and age?

“And,” Ginny continued, “He wrote it in such lovely calligraphy! You can’t refuse him after he went through the trouble of drafting this letter.”

“No, Ginny, I don’t want to set foot in that thrice-damned garden!”

***

Riddle’s valet answered the door. “Madame Weasley-Potter? Monsieur Potter? Come in, Monsieur Riddle has been expecting you.”

The man let them in, Harry scowling at the valet (also clearly imported, like the gardeners. What, couldn’t any of the British ones satisfy the man?) all the while gaping at the obscene luxury of the interiors. The floor was some kind of hardwood, a deep black polished to a gleaming shine. The rugs were also expensive (probably imported directly from some Turkish museum) and there valuable-looking antiques tastefully arranged all around them.

Mr Riddle entered the tea room a little after them, and the valet left without prompting. Their host was a handsome middle-aged gentleman, dressed in a gentlemanly linen suit, complete with a matching vest and tie. He gestured them to sit, and even drew the chair for Ginny.

Harry suddenly felt horribly inadequate, in his scruffy denim trousers and t-shirt. He furiously squashed down the feeling like a grape and looked into Riddle’s face. The man was very, very attractive, and Ginny seemed enthralled by his manners and dignity.

The feeling of inadequacy returned, and this time, he could not quash it.

Damn!

The tea-party in Hell continued for a while, Riddle and Ginny exchanging pleasantries and making idle chat, while Harry fumbled with his chamomile tea, princess cakes and social niceties.

“These cakes are delicious, Mr Riddle.” Ginny said brightly, taking a bite of the buttercream-filled pastry. “Harry here loves sweets.” She elbowed him, and Harry nodded along. The pastry was delicious, and Harry could tell Riddle had it made especially for them, since the man didn’t seem to be much of a sweets person.

But sweeter the cake tasted on his tongue, the more sour his mood became.

Riddle smiled back pleasantly.

Finally, the tea was over and the cakes put aside. Harry began counting down to the moment they could get out of the house. The atmosphere was heavy, and something didn’t sit well with him.

“Before we part, there is something I feel I must return to you, Mr Potter.” Riddle reached down into the bag the valet had left at his heel some time back, and pulled out the water-pistol. The container attached to it was still full of ink.

Harry paled more by the moment.

Riddle seemed to pay no attention, and offered the pistol back. “Perchance, I found it on my evening walk yesterday. It did not seem to be intentionally left there, and I thought it only neighbourly to return it to the owner. Fortunately, there was a tag with your name.”

Harry wished a hole would open up in the ground, that he could crawl into and die.

Their host did not seem to be in any mood to let him go. “What stroke of luck, Mr Potter, that had this toy facilitating a proper introduction between us after three years of living side-by-side!”

Ginny cringed, drawing the lines between the ink-filled pistol and the defaced garden gnomes. “Yes, what stroke of luck, indeed.” She said with forced calmness, and got up from her seat. “It’s late, and we ought to be leaving. Thank you for the tea, Mr Riddle. It was lovely to meet you properly.”

Riddle returned the gesture, standing up and nodding. “Likewise, Mrs Potter, Mr Potter. Goodnight.”

Ginny headed to the door, not waiting for the valet to show them out, and Harry sheepishly followed, clutching the accursed water-pistol in his hands.

“And one more thing, Mr Potter?” Riddle called. Harry turned, knowing it was a bad idea. “You missed Grumpy and Sneezy.”

Ginny flushed as red as her hair, and dragged Harry out of Riddle House, heading straight into their kitchen. She slammed the door shut, making the panes shake.

“What has gotten into you?” She seethed, breathing fire and promising much pain. “You destroyed his gnomes!”

“They’re just gnomes.” Harry pointed out.

“You _inked_ them, like it’s some sort of childish game! Well, it’s not, and I’m- beyond words. What’s Mr Riddle going to think of us! Hell, what will the neighbourhood say about us?” She heaved a breath and continued before Harry could get a word in.

“I have never been more humiliated in my entire life!” Ginny cried. Harry butted in, raising his hand tentatively.

“Right, let’s not forget the time McLaggen took you to that dinner-”

“Leave Cormac out of this, Harry! This is you! It’s your fault! I don’t understand why you can’t get over this stupid rivalry-”

“They were mocking me! He put them there because he _knows_ it annoys me!”

“And it wouldn’t affect you if you decided to grow up and be and act your age, for once!”

There was a brief silence. And then-

“He’s _evil,_ Ginny. You don’t realise it now, but someday, he’ll show his true ugly face, and you’ll know I was right.”

Ginny took a deep breath and tossed her shoes into the corner. “You can sleep on the couch tonight.” And she shut herself in the bedroom.

Harry sank onto a stool and sighed. His gaze inadvertently shifted to the window. The little culprits behind this whole fiasco smiled cheerily from the West Garden, still covered by layers of ink.

He glared hatefully. One day, he was going to get Riddle back.

***

* * *


	2. Snow White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets back at Riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Harry!

It was five more days to Halloween. Most of the country gardens were ripe with pumpkins, fat and orange on their creepers, the roadside trees trees jingling with apples and pears.

Harry was raking off the chrysanthemum leaves when yet another truck stopped by Riddle house. Workers lifted something large and heavy from the cargo and began carefully carrying it into the garden. Harry tossed his rake aside in favour of peeping over the hedge (having had a regular summer course in the neighbourhood-spying abilities of Aunt Petunia, who had gotten him into gardening and gossip in the first place), but the object was snugly wrapped in bubble-wrap. Judging by the shape, it was probably a fountain. Or another statue.

Pretentious prick.

Harry went back to his chrysanthemum leaves.

He did find out, much later, that it was indeed a fountain, topped by the last piece in the collector’s edition Disney’s Snow White garden gnome set. The centrepiece was Snow herself, in mid-pirouette atop the apple-themed fountain, complete with dancing gown and pointe shoes.

Harry enviously glanced at the female gnome’s pink-glazed porcelain face and idly wondered how Snow White would look in black ink.

Face as black as coal- heh, wouldn’t that be ironic?

Nevertheless, it was a useless endeavour to muse on inking Snow White, chiefly because Ginny had confiscated his water-pistol. Harry decided that, for once, he would do as his wife suggested and behave like a sensible, mature adult.

***

“That’s it! I’m going to set fire to his garden!” Harry yelled, furiously digging into the new vegetable patch with his spade. “That bastard has done it, and I’m going to mess up his perfect North-American pumpkins! I’ll beat them with a baseball bat if I have to!”

Each word was punctuated with a vicious strike of the spade- and he had unearthed such alarming amounts of dirt that it looked more like he was digging Riddle’s grave.

Ginny tried to wrench the spade from his hands. “That’s enough, Harry!”

“Let me finish!” Harry cried. He did not specify if he meant his work on the vegetable patch, or his frustrated tirade.

“Garlic doesn’t need to be planted in a bloody trench!” The red-head succeeded in taking the spade away, and began refilling the pit to a reasonable depth. “And I thought you’d decided to be mature about Mr Riddle?”

“Riddle’s a spiteful old coot and I know he’s doing it on purpose!”

Ginny raised an eyebrow dryly. “What, beautifying his garden?”

Harry punched the ground and groaned in dissatisfaction when the soft earth yielded too easily. “I mean, think about it. Who the hell _imports_ whole plants of fully-grown pumpkin days before Halloween?”

His wife sighed and sat down beside him. “Alright. It wasn’t a very nice move to import huge pumpkins so that he can outshine yours. But it’s also not very nice of you to trash-talk about Mr Riddle whenever you can. It’s a really childish and stupid thing to do.”

“Yes, but his gardeners know practically nothing, Ginny! He replaced Old Frank with _Barty Crouch!_ I swear, he’s only keeping the likes of Crouch around just to gawk at his arse!”

Ginny inhaled sharply and smacked his head. Her cheeks were gaining colour, and it wasn’t the bashful kind. Harry visibly drew back, because his wife had inherited the infamous Weasley temper and he valued his life, thank you very much.

“What have you got against Riddle?” She hissed.

“You’re just siding with him because he’s handsome, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I see. That’s what this is about, innit? Some pathetic attempt to ease your ego-”

Harry could not stand it anymore. Even his wife was siding against him. He stormed back into the house and clambered up into the attic, curling up at the window where could see Gnome Snow White dancing on the fountain.

He wouldn’t take it anymore. Something had to be done.

***

Halloween loomed closer, and with it, the Autumn Garden Event. On the day of the Pumpking Show, the best pumpkin in the countryside would be selected for decorating the town hall. Farmers and garden enthusiasts queued with their orange produce, assembling in front of the judging panel. The vegetables were first weighed on a scale, and then passed on for the judges to inspect.

Harry was pretty proud of his pumpkin; he had phoned Hagrid and asked for tips, and it had paid off. Anyone who read the Fresh Farm monthly would know Hagrid was Scotland’s finest competitive farmer.

Apparently, Malfoy was too above the rest of the plebeian world to read Farm Fresh; he merely sneered at the melon and pointed out a few speckles of yellow at the stem, grading him an abysmal three out of ten. Harry gritted his teeth and glared daggers at the blond ponce, but that did him no favours with the rest of the judges.

Getting his hard work a pathetic twenty three out of fifty, Harry returned to his seat, muttering abuse at the smarmy judges and clutching his pumpkin close to his chest. He absent-mindedly patted the pumpkin’s ribs. “It’s alright, darling. You’re gorgeous- they’re all just blind idiots.”

“Talking to inanimate objects is a sign of mental deterioration, Mr Potter.” Someone sat on the empty chair beside him. Harry turned to face Thomas Riddle the Third, who was smartly dressed in yet another crisscrossed linen suit.

“What, never heard of a phone?” Harry snapped.

The older man smiled patiently. “Touché.” He did not say anything more, merely crossing his legs and glancing at the door. As if on cue, Barty Crouch entered with a gigantic pumpkin, succulent in its bright colour and swollen ribs. It was a work of art, and the bastard sitting beside Harry looked all the more smug for it. Harry watched, betrayed, as Malfoy salivated over the vegetable, giving it a ten, and the other judges followed suit. At a whopping forty eight out of fifty, it was clear who the winner of the £100 contest was.

As if the man needed any more money.

Crouch stepped up to take the prize envelope from Mayor Finch-Fletchey. Harry glared and left with his pumpkin. He turned his ‘darling’ into a pie and proceeded to stuff himself.

This could not go on.

Not one of the judges cared that Riddle had brought in an imported pumpkin!

He would have to teach the old bastard a lesson. Riddle _would not_ show off at the Autumn Garden Event.

That night, Harry snuck into the West Garden through the hedge, and made his way to the front. The fountain was well-lit, although the LEDs were not enough to betray his identity. He thanked his lucky stars that Riddle did not have a surveillance system, and gingerly stepped into the ornate fountain. It creaked slightly, and Harry adjusted his weight so as to not break the delicate porcelain and give away the game so soon.

Gnome Snow White smiled down at him mid-piroutte, and he suddenly felt deep, searing hatred. He reached up and began to twist the gnome off the fountain. He was nearly done when the gnome suddenly went flying.

Whoosh!

Harry lost his footing as a sudden burst of cold water drenched him, and he toppled out of the fountain. The water shot up and began to rain into the fountain bowl, and he realised the gnome had been plugging the fountain until the plumbing could be fixed.

It had also created a lot of noise, and the garden lights were quickly turned on. The lights inside Riddle House were also being switched on, one by one, and Harry panicked.

He seized the female gnome and fled, steering himself away from his own house with what little sensibility remained, and running as fast as his legs could carry him. Finally, the stretch of houses disappeared, and he found himself in a thicket. The man collapsed, still clinging on to Gnome Snow White, and bad luck hit him again when the gnome’s porcelain head cracked and fell off its neck.

Harry was screwed.

***

Harry blinked blearily as he woke. He was surrounded by trees? And why was he clutching a head?

A head!

The events of the last night came rushing back to his head, and Harry groaned as he stared at the decapitated Gnome Snow White.

Well, at least, he had super-glue in the house- now to figure out how to get the gnome into his attic without Ginny noticing...

Eventually, Harry settled for slinking back through the thicket- he was sure the same woods stretched out to the backyard of Riddle House, after which, it would not be that difficult to smuggle Snow White into his hedge.

Walking for a while, he found a trail that would lead to the back of Riddle House. He happily set off, until he glimpsed the tall, lithe form of Mr Riddle on his morning jog. Harry blanched and hastily stashed the gnome between a couple of thick, gnarled tree-roots and broke off a branch of rushes to cover it with. Thus prepared, he jumped for a while- just enough to flush his face and quicken his breathing, and sat beside the hidden gnome.

Mr Riddle smiled upon seeing him, and stopped. “Fancy seeing you here, Mr Potter!”

Harry returned an uneasy smile. “Morning, Mr Riddle. You’re up early.”

“Ah, I have to stretch my limbs once a while. Being cooped up in the house for too long isn’t good for my health. But, Mr Potter, surely you, of all people, wouldn’t need more sunshine and air?”

“Oh, no. I was just jogging.” Harry countered, waving his hand wildly. “Got to keep myself fit, yeah?”

Riddle raised a baffled eyebrow, scanning Harry carefully. “In your pyjamas?”

Harry looked down, and flushed, realising that he was still wearing his bright red, lion-patterned pyjamas. In fact, he had been wearing that very recognisable piece of clothing whilst stealing Riddle’s garden gnome. Harry prayed to all his saints that the LEDs on the fountain hadn’t been bright enough to betray him.

“Uh... I was rather... inspired today. Didn’t have time to change.” He hurriedly deflected the question with another. “How are you, Mr Riddle?”

Evidently, this was the wrong question to ask. Riddle suddenly looked distraught and sat beside Harry, sighing dramatically. “Snow White, my prize piece, has been stolen.” The older man’s shoulders drooped, and he looked a little forlorn.

“S-Stolen?” Harry bit his tongue at the stutter and tried his best to not look guilty.

Mr Riddle nodded balefully and proceeded to recount last night’s incidents. Harry sat uncomfortably and listened as the man waxed poetic about the stolen gnome, whose headless body was hidden under the very branch or rushes Riddle was leaning against.

After twenty or so very awkward minutes, Riddle got up and nodded politely before resuming his jog. Harry slumped against the tree-trunk, successfully guilt-tripped. He removed the rushes to stare dully at Snow White’s pale pink face, and carried the pieces back into his house. Ginny was in the kitchen, so he climbed the tree that led into the first-floor balcony, and entered the attic that way.

Once the stolen gnome was safely put away, Harry clambered down and offered a weak excuse of sleeping in the attic. Ginny raised a sceptic eyebrow, but left it. It was proof of her faith in him.

Harry suddenly felt terribly, horribly guilty.

For the next two days, even the plants could not provide him much joy. The weight of the stolen garden gnome dragged his spirits down, until Harry, the honest, simple-minded fool that he was, grabbed the glue and headed up to the attic to fix the figurine’s head.

The crack could have been much worse, and when he was done, there were only a few tiny chips missing around the neckline that ever told the gnome had lost its head. He congratulated himself on a job well-done.

Now came the hardest part- getting it back into Riddle’s garden.

Ever since the gnome was stolen, Riddle had placed Crouch on guard duty, which left the hedge as his only option.

On Halloween morning, Harry waited until Ginny had gone out to grab Snow White from the attic, and he stealthily crept round the kitchen yard to the hedge. He hoped to the angels above that the porcelain wouldn’t break, pushed the gnome into the hedge and gave it a hard kick.

The figurine rolled into the West Garden, and lightly clinked against the other ink-stained ones.

Success!

Harry moved to pull his leg out of the hedge, only to be met with strong hands around his ankle. He yelped as he was pulled into the West Garden through the hedge. Looking up at his assailant, Harry gulped as he came face-to-face with Thomas Riddle III.

***

* * *


	3. The Huntsman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Harry yelped as he was pulled into the West Garden, a vice-like grip dragging him through the hedge by the ankle. He gulped as he came face-to-face with Thomas Riddle III-

Harry yelped as he was pulled into the West Garden, a vice-like grip dragging him through the hedge by the ankle. He gulped as he came face-to-face with Thomas Riddle III.

“It wasn’t me!” He squealed, trying to pull his leg out of Riddle’s grasp.

The gentleman looked pointedly at Gnome Snow White, lying a few feet away from Harry’s leg. The latter flushed. “Come with me, Mr Potter.”

The man picked up the female gnome and led the way to his house, and Harry reluctantly followed. He made Harry sit down in the solarium and left. The younger man squirmed in his seat, fidgeting with his buttons and chewing his cheeks.

Finally, Riddle returned, carrying a small... book?

“I’d like you to read this aloud.” He handed Harry the book and sat facing him, crossing his legs and leaning forward intently. Harry shrunk shamefacedly under that gaze until he felt like a schoolboy being punished by his teacher.

He didn’t realise he had voiced that last thought aloud until Riddle replied, “If you behave like a child, you’ll be treated like one. Now read.”

Harry tentatively began reading: “Bobby Bunny and the Big Pumpkin Payback.” It looked like a children’s picture book.

“There was a carnival in Pumpkintown. Farmer Wright promised his biggest pumpkin to whoever won the sack race. Bobby Bunny was confident in his hopping, and was close to the finish-line. The sly Felix Fox suddenly appeared from behind a tree and cut in, winning the race. Bobby Bunny was enraged. He’d been cheated out of his win!”

Harry paused, taking in the accompanied watercolour illustration. The situation in the story seemed very familiar, and he oddly began to project onto the black bunny with the adorably angry face.

Yes, he’d been cheated out of his prize by Riddle far too many times. He empathised with Bobby Bunny.

“Bobby Bunny watched bitterly as Farmer Wright awarded Felix Fox with the giant pumpkin. As the carnival went on, Bobby grew more and more jealous, and decided that he would get back at the undeserving fox. When no one was watching, Bobby Bunny slipped into Felix Fox’s cart and began to burrow his way into the pumpkin.”

Harry stopped, hair standing on end. The similarities were unnerving.

Riddle’s eyes were gleaming. “Go on, Mr Potter.”

The young man’s voice was thick as he continued. “When Felix Fox returned home for dinner, he cut open the melon and saw no pumpkin pulp, but a big, full-bellied Bobby Bunny sleeping inside the vegetable.

Felix Fox prodded the sleeping bunny with his fork. Bobby woke up with a yelp, and realised he’d been caught in the act. Felix Fox did not care much for the pumpkin, because he was a fox, and foxes were not vegetarian... He opened his great maw and gobbled the greedy bunny up...”

That was the end of the book. Harry looked up, half-expecting Riddle to brandish a gun or something. But the man did nothing of the sort. He was still patiently waiting, head tilted and watching him in amusement. “Are you sure this is a children’s tale?”

Riddle chuckled darkly. “Oh, yes. This is quite tame, compared to some of the others I’ve read. Have you tried Red Shoes? You ought to, it has a very intriguing ending.”

There was a long and awkward silence. It stretched on for a while until Harry realised he desperately needed to change the topic. His gaze fell on the book cover, which he had not noticed until then. There was an angry black bunny clinging onto a giant pumpkin. And above it-

‘Thomas Riddle’

“You wrote this?” Harry blurted out.

“Yes. I write children’s fiction. Surely you knew this?”

Harry flushed again. He’d thought Riddle was the unemployed, old-money type. He looked around the house- the man probably was. Riddle seemed to have sensed his thoughts.

“Consider it a much-loved hobby, like your gardening.”

Harry nodded. Then, when the silence became too much, “I’m sorry I broke your gnome.”

Riddle waved his hand. “I can get it repaired.”

“And for inking your other gnomes.”

Riddle snorted.

“Could I- read more? They’re nice. Your stories, I mean.” Harry bit his tongue in his haste and cursed, scowling. The gentleman opposite him quirked up his lips and affirmed, then stood up, beckoning him to follow.

Riddle led him to his study, and indicated a tall bookshelf. “Pick whatever you like.”

The books were all arranged by collection and reading order along the shelves. There were many stories, mostly illustrated short tales, although Harry could spot the Adventures of Sorcerer Voldemort series that his godson adored. Harry picked out a book from Bobby Bunny collection, flipping onto a random page. The illustration caught his eye, and Harry froze.

_‘Bobby Bunny pointed his gun at Felix’s gnomes. The foul Fox would never make fun of Bobby ever again! He pretended that it was a real gun that he was going to off the gnomes with. Bam! Bam! Bam! Each of the fat little gnomes were paint-balled right on their noses...’_

Horrified, Harry flipped the book closed and stared at the cover. “Bobby Bunny and the Gnome Rivalry.”

On the other side of the room, Riddle snorted. He was looking out of the window, but Harry didn’t need an expert to tell him Riddle was laughing at him. Enraged and thoroughly embarrassed, Harry stalked up to the other man.

“You! How did you- but I thought-”

He stopped abruptly behind Riddle and felt blood draining from his face as he realised the comfortable-looking bay window seat overlooked the West Garden and had a perfect view all the way into Harry’s backyard...

Riddle had been watching, all this time.

Everything.

Harry felt faint. All his grand schemes for revenge had ended up being money-making material for Riddle. A warm hand on his shoulder steadied him and steered him onto a leather armchair.

“I realise I never got your permission to write a character based off you. But considering that you were vandalising _my_ property on all those instances, it would be safe to say we’re even, wouldn’t it?”

Harry groaned and covered his eyes, hoping that it would all go away.

Eventually, he gave up in favour of staring at Riddle, daring the man to say something. Riddle’s lips curved in the ghost of a smile.

“I confess, it was rather amusing to watch. You’ve exceptionally good aim.” Harry flushed scarlet. Smirking, Riddle continued, “Oh, please, don’t stop on my account. The Bobby Bunny series are quite in demand these days.” He paused, glanced at the bookshelf and added as an afterthought: “You did say you wanted to read some more, didn’t you?”

“No thank you!” Harry snapped, standing up abruptly. He was done with this conversation. In fact, he was done with Riddle- and he decided to spend the rest of his life pretending that the old bastard didn’t exist.

A soft touch on his wrist stopped him on his way to the door.

“Please-” Riddle said. “There are plenty of other books here that don’t involve Bobby Bunny. How about you try the Peverell Chronicles? I’m told that it has a wide adult readership just as well. I daresay you’d enjoy it.”

Harry hesitated. “What do you want?”

The elderly man sighed. “I’d rather us part on good terms to-day.”

Riddle looked old. And tired.

It suddenly struck him that Riddle had very few visitors. In his three years of obsessive stalking and glaring at his neighbour’s place, Harry had only ever seen two visitors. There was a middle-aged woman with heavy curls (a lover, he’d assumed), and a fretful, squirrely young man in a professional-looking suit. They came once or twice a month, and Riddle rarely left the house.

It must have been a terribly lonely life, to be cooped up in that large house with only a stoic valet for company.

“Yeah. Okay.” Harry sighed, and let himself be led back to the bookshelf.

***

Halloween was splendid, and Riddle House’s yard stole the show again. Children and adults alike stopped by to see the ghastly sight that was the front garden. Harry peered over his fence, wondering what the snooty old man had done.

Fortunately, Riddle hadn’t needed to do anything more than pour crimson colours into his Snow White fountain; the water had dissolved Harry’s glue; and it had been spectacular to watch the gnome’s head blast off its neck with a bloody gush of red, right in time to scare the wits out of an unfortunate group of trick-or-treaters passing by. The defaced gnome-dwarves were carefully lighted and placed in aesthetically horrible places- often, a half-stained, creepy face could be spotted peeking out of a wild-looking hedge, it’s painted porcelain eyes glowing in the dim garden lighting.

Suffice to say, Riddle House didn’t need to garner any trick-or-treaters that night to be voted the ‘Scariest Haunted House’ in the neighbourhood polls.

Riddle tipped his hat the next time he met Harry in the West Garden. “Entirely your work, my dear.”

The young man glared half-heartedly. Later, Riddle assured him that the gnomes had been successfully restored to their original condition.

***

Harry slowly learnt that Riddle often had a dark, sarcastic sense of humour that emerged in the presence of close acquaintances (and less frequently, in the passages of The Adventures of Sorcerer Voldemort.) Riddle could also be single-mindedly immersed in writing when the muse struck him.

The valet, Lestrange, wasn’t actually French- Riddle had found the man in Albania, roughsleeping as an illegal immigrant, and taken him into service. Apparently, the man had only learnt French to impress Riddle’s editor, the feisty Miss Black. (Harry wondered briefly if the aforementioned Miss Black was related to his godfather. He’d have to ask Sirius about that.)

Riddle also had a weak heart, and liked to have a companion in his prescribed morning jogging. On the other hand, Harry was a lazy late-riser, and was appropriately chided by both Riddle and Dr Quirrel, before he took up jogging as well.

He also learnt that while Riddle could charm and manoeuvre his way through any social situation, crowds actually made him anxious, and that he preferred the quiet peace of his home and the woods behind. The man slyly let slip that the woods belonged to the Riddle House grounds, and relished watching Harry squirm whenever he took their jogs around the place where the latter had tried to stash the broken Snow White gnome.

Often, Harry would pop into Riddle’s study and let the elderly man regale him with his adventures of defying his father to tour the continent, especially about camping in the forests of Albania. In his youth, Riddle had been part of archaeology expeditions, which led to his hobby of collecting antiques.

Harry’s visits increased in both frequency and informality.

“You seem to be getting along well with Mr Riddle.” Ginny remarked, pulling out a tray of strawberry-jam cookies. Harry bit into one and moaned.

“These are delicious, Gin!”

Ginny tossed her carrot-red braids proudly and eyed the pot of flowering begonias suspiciously. “You haven’t planted a wasp nest or something in there, have you?”

“I’m past that!” He replied hotly.

Those show-stopping begonias had won him the Autumn Garden Event, despite the classic look Riddle had pulled with his vibrant ivy walls and vividly striped Old Garden roses. The man hadn’t, thankfully, imported any flashy sure-win plants for the event. Nevertheless, it had been a close call, and Harry intended to rub his win in Riddle’s face. Hence, the gift basket of pastel begonias.

Alright, so he was still a bit petty.

Riddle, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy them. The man put the basket on the window sill of his study, where Harry could see them from his kitchen. The following days saw Harry attempting to teach Riddle to care for begonias, much to the amusement of his valet.

People found it amusing when Harry talked about not hurting the plants while pruning or cutting, and he’d always snap back that plants were living, sentient beings- why wouldn’t they not feel?

Riddle never laughed. He’d peer over a cup of whatever new herbal tea had caught his fancy, give one of his strange smirks and watch, as though everything Harry did were the most beguiling, enrapturing of tasks.

“So, you cut off the heads before the blooms shrivel up- a deadheaded begonia is a happy begonia. The basket should take care of draining the soil- and I mixed the potting myself, so they should be just fine...”

Riddle was an intent watcher- it used to unnerve Harry at the beginning, but he soon realised that was the man’s way of regarding anything of interest. The gardener beckoned Riddle closer, carefully showing him how to trim the dead flowers. The older man leaned over, and Harry could feel his presence right behind him, the faint fragrance of mint over the man’s cologne floating around Harry’s head.

He pulled his thoughts back together and cut the stems gently, one by one, setting them aside in case Riddle wanted to dry them later. Done with the deadheading, he turned to find himself trapped between Riddle and the window.

And then, suddenly, Riddle was kissing him-

-and blithe, stupid idiot that he was, Harry kissed him back. The gentleman tasted like fresh mint and ginger tea, his lips soft against Harry’s chafed ones, and he could feel the warmth of the man’s long fingers sliding into his hair.

It was a chaste kiss, a mere brush of the lips- but torturously slow. Harry lost himself until an inquisitive brush of Riddle’s tongue on his lower lip broke him out of the daze.

Horrified, Harry pushed the man off, and stumbled back. Riddle spryly caught the basket of begonias he had upset in his haste to get away, a flicker of hurt in his greying eyes that did not escape Harry.

“I’m not a p... I’m married.” Harry amended.

Riddle’s face had returned to its unreadable state. “Yes. I apologise.” The man stepped back, letting Harry have his personal space, and it felt like the wall between them had been re-erected.

A mournful silence lingered in the room, and although Harry tried to break it by offering a box of Ginny’s strawberry-jam cookies, it was not enough. Riddle had withdrawn into his polite, pleasant self, and Harry knew that they could not return to the easy friendship they had before.

Harry beat a hasty retreat after that.

In the safety of his home, he wondered if Ginny had seen it. They had been right next to the window, after all. His fingers were cold, and Harry sought to not think of it again.

His fears were unfounded- for Ginny returned from her brother’s place, whistling merrily and with an armful of pumpkin pies her mother had sent along. The pies were Molly's, so naturally, they were delicious enough to take Harry’s mind off other things.

At night, he went to brush his teeth, and picked up Ginny’s herbal toothpaste instead of the mixed-fruit flavour that he generally preferred. And as he ambled to the bed, Harry sleepily thought he really liked the taste of mint and ginger tea.

***

FIN


End file.
